‘Monsieur Dumas!’ cried the maid, ‘Monsieur Dumas! stop your dog!’
We tried; but Pritchard passed between Michel and me like a flash of lightning.
‘It seems,’ said Michel, ‘that he likes his veal underdone.’
‘My good woman,’ I said to the cook, who was still pursuing Pritchard, ‘I fear that you are losing time, and that you will never see your cutlet again.’
‘Well, then, let me tell you, sir, that you have no right to keep and feed a thief like that.’
‘It is you, my good woman, who are feeding him to-day, not I.’
‘Me!’ said the cook, ‘it’s—it’s M. Corrège. And what will M. Corrège say, I should like to know?’
‘He will say, like Michel, that it seems Pritchard likes his veal underdone.’
‘Well, but he’ll not be pleased—he will think it’s my fault.’
‘Never mind, I will invite your master to luncheon with me.’